


What is...and What Could Have Been

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-22
Updated: 2007-09-22
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: This is my take on WIAWSNB...IF the Djinn had taken Sam instead of Dean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This was one of my favorite stories to write...it was originally separated into five short chapters, but I'm going to try and post it here in one longer version.

What Is…And What Could Have Been(?)

 

 

“What ya got for me, Dean?” Sam asked, driving the Impala into the darkness, trying to find what sort of spirit/creature/ghost was systematically taking the locals. Dean, subdued by pain pills (due to a broken ankle obtained during the last hunt,) was relegated to research. “Ok, geek boy, put this in your pipe and smoke it,” Dean began, “I think what we’ve got here is a Djinn. It’s the only thing that fits the profile.” Sam, surprised, questioned Dean’s research, “A Genie? What? Why? Where would…” “Whoa, college boy,” Dean interrupted, “Yes, a Genie, you know, like as is ‘I dream of,’ which I have, by the way, Barbara Eden was hot, don’t you think?… Sammy?…Sammy…You still there?” 

 

“Yeah, Dean, I’m still here, I’m just amazed at where your mind goes. They have medication for that now, you know. Anyway, where do I look for the Genie, the Djinn?”

 

“Ruins,” Dean answered. “Probably an old abandoned building or warehouse or something like that.”

 

“Ok,” Sam said, “I saw something like that a few miles back, I’ll check it out and be back to the motel soon.” 

 

“No,” Dean started, “Come pick me up first.”

 

“Not with your broken ankle, Dean, all I need is you slowing me down, man. I can handle this one alone. I promise. Just keep it on ice, ok?”

 

“Keep WHAT on ice?!” Dean asked.

 

“Your ankle, dimwit.” And with that Sam hung up.

 

 

He pulled into the parking lot, and stepped into the darkness and mist. He made his way inside, aware of his surroundings. The building was abandoned, decrepit, really, and it was difficult to tell what had ever taken place inside. An old typewriter was the only clue that at some point in time someone had written something other than graffiti there.

 

Sam quietly made his way down the hallway, into the open section of the building, brandishing a knife dipped in lamb’s blood (occupational hazard) and carefully pointing his flashlight across each wall, down every hallway. Nothing. 

 

And then he was grabbed from behind and before he could register what was happening, he felt a bolt, a shock, a sizzling feeling in his head. He could barely breathe, barely see, barely fight back…and then…nothing.

 

 

Sam awoke with a start. Fuzzy feeling in his head, an almost-hangover feeling, just disconnected. Looking around he realized he was in the house his parents lived in, the house where the fire was, where his mother died. He only fully recognized it from seeing it as an adult, when Missouri helped he and Dean cleanse it of the poltergeist. But it was the same house, the same room where he almost died. It felt like his room. Startled, he picked up his cell phone (in a backpack full of law books and class notes, which added to the alarm) and automatically dialed Dean’s number. 

 

“What?” a sleepy voice answered.

 

“Dean,” Sam began, “I’m not there. I’m not sure what happened, the Djinn…”

 

“You’ve been drinking Gin?” Dean asked, laughing, “Where the hell do your parents hide the gin, man, and why didn’t you share any with me?”

 

Sam, confused, continued, “Dean, I’m serious, I think the Djnn transported me…or something. I’m in Mom and Dad’s old house, and it looks…strange, like it’s my room, and I have law books and I don’t know what happened, the Djinn got me…”

 

“Sammy,” Dean continued, his voice seeming closer now, “The gin didn’t get you…I did!”

 

Dean leapt onto the bed and tackled Sam. Sam screamed like a little girl.

 

“WHAT…THE…HELL… ARE YOU DOING…HERE?” Sam yelled between panting breaths.

 

“Shhhh!” Dean whispered, “We’ll wake your parents.” And kissed Sam. On the lips. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Dean proceeded to lick at Sam’s lips, but got no response except a blank stare and a gaping mouth. Sam’s gaping mouth. “Hell, Sam,” Dean continued in a whisper, “I usually get a better welcome from you, especially in the morning.” Dean nuzzled into Sam’s neck, and Sam gently pushed him away.

 

“I don’t know what’s going on, Dean.” Sam’s voice was solemn, fearful, even.

 

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, and looked him in the eye, “It’s ok, Sam, I think you had a bad dream or something. It’s ok. I’m here. It was just a dream. We came to visit your parents for your Mom’s birthday, remember? We flew in from Palo Alto last night and…oh, I’ll bet it was all that great home-cooked food your Mom cooked for you, gave you nightmares. You probably dreamed you’d have to live with my cooking for the rest of your life!”

 

Sam, trying to take all this in, trying to make sense of it, could only get the words out, “But, Dean, Mom’s dead.”

 

Dean, further concerned, put his palm up to Sam’s forehead, checking for a fever. “No, Sam, your Mom’s not dead. She’s alive and well and her birthday is today. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I think maybe she could help. I’m gonna go wake her up, ok? You know, your Mom can fix anything, right? Ok, I’ll be right back.” 

 

Dean came back a few minutes later, no longer in his underwear and t-shirt, but with sweats on, which Sam found odd. 

 

Odd did not begin to describe the next sight Sam saw. His mother, alive and well and beautiful, and looking at him with love and concern.

 

“Mom?” Sam asked weakly, looking for all the world like a small child.

 

“Yes, baby boy,” Mary answered, “I’m right here,” and she sat next to her son on the bed. She, too, felt for a fever, and looked closely into Sam’s eyes, felt his neck for swollen glands. “What’s wrong, Sammy? Dean says you’re not feeling well. Did you have a bad dream?”

 

Sam could only stare at his mother, then wrap his arms around her and hug her tight. “Mom,” he breathed between tears, “you’re here…I…I always wanted…you look so beautiful.” Mary smiled gently at her son, “Sammy, I’m right here. Everything’s ok, except you must be sick, because I just got up and you’re telling me I’m beautiful?” Both Dean and Mary laughed softly, and Sam smiled weakly at both of them. “Well, he might be your son, Mrs. Winchester,” Dean began, “but he’s not blind. No wonder Sam gets hit on all the time at Stanford by all the hot women, he got his good looks from you.” Dean stole a wink at Sam, and Mary smiled sweetly. 

 

“What’s this going on in here?” A booming voice came from the hallway. John Winchester. Alive and well.

 

“Dad?” Sam, barely able to comprehend, looked questioningly from his mother to Dean to his father. He stood, shakily, and extended his hand to his father, “hello, sir.”

 

“What the hell, Sammy?” John asked, and took Sam in his arms, into a bear hug, and kissed his son on the cheek, “Why so formal?”

 

Mary looked to John and explained, “Honey, Sammy’s not feeling so well. I don’t think he’s running a fever, but I’m not sure what’s wrong.”

 

Dean piped up, “Bad dream, I think. He has them all the time at Stanford…or so Jess tells me.

 

“Jess?” Sam was almost unable to say the name. “Jess is at Stanford? She’s alive?”

 

Dean knelt to face Sam, “Yeah, Sam, Jess is fine, and she couldn’t come for your mom’s birthday because her final exams ran late, remember?” 

Sam just nodded.

 

An awkward silence ensued. As per usual, Dean was the one to speak first, “Ok, people, I think we’ve all stared at Sam enough for one day. He’s a handsome devil, I know, but maybe we ought to get some food in the growing boy?”

 

Mary rushed downstairs to start breakfast, and Dean politely asked John (referring to him as ‘Mr. Winchester”) if he could take a shower. John answered in the affirmative, and waited with Sam.

 

“Why is Dean acting so funny?” Sam asked his father.

 

“Well, son, I don’t know, he’s your friend. And besides, I thought we all decided that you were the one acting funny.” John tussled Sam’s hair and smiled at him. Sam was not used to this treatment from his father. If memory serves. Which it didn’t seem to be doing at the moment. At least not for Sam.

 

Sam laid back and closed his eyes, aware of his father’s concerned expression. “I don’t know, Dad, it’s like everything’s weird…different…I don’t know what happened and I don’t know how to explain it. The last thing I remember Dean and I were hunting and…”

 

“You went hunting?” John interrupted. “Son, did you hit your head or something? You don’t hunt. You’re a vegetarian. Are you sure you’re ok?” And for the third time that morning, someone had their palm on Sam’s forehead, checking for a fever.

 

“No, Dad, I don’t have a fever,” Sam assured, sitting up, “and, I didn’t mean we were hunting, like, animals, exactly, I meant we were hunting…you know…we were…” 

 

John burst into a bit grin, “Women? Is that what you boys call it these days? In my day we called it ‘cruising.’ And what the hell are you doing that for, boy? You have Jess!”

 

“No, Dad, we weren’t hunting, uh, looking, for women. We were looking for the Djinn.” Sam looked for any recognition in his father’s eyes, but none was to be found.

 

John laughed out loud. “Well, that explains it, son, you were hunting the gin and the gin got the better of you! You and your buddy, there, better slow down on the drinking and start hitting the books a little harder!”

 

“Dad,” Sam began carefully, “How long have I known Dean?”

 

John thought for a moment and replied, “I’m not sure son, I think you met him right when you got to Stanford, about the same time you met Jess, why?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sam answered, “It just seems like I’ve known him all my life.”

 

John looked thoughtful again, “Well, son, that’s the way all the best friendships are.”

Friend. Dean was his friend. Not his brother. Hell, maybe his lover, what with the kissing earlier in the morning. This was almost too much for Sam to digest. Especially before breakfast. Fortunately, the smell of blueberry pancakes was wafting up the stairs, and maybe some food in his stomach would help him sort out this mess. 

 

 

 

The pancakes were amazing. Dean seemed to like them more than anyone, asking for seconds…and thirds…and, being his charming self, helping Mary with the dishes. Once more, Sam was alone with his father. His father, who, in his memory, had died less than a year ago. What does one say to one’s formerly dead father?

 

“So, Dad, how you think the Cubs are gonna do this year?” Sam winced, regretting the words before they even left his mouth. This was not the kind of conversation he wanted to be having. Or ever remembered having, with his Dad.

 

“Son, I think they gotta work on pitching this year. They’ve got a good outfield, so we’ll see, I guess.” John seemed genuinely interested in talking about baseball. This was the clincher – Sam had either lost his mind or was in a time warp. Or both. 

 

The day was sunny, warm, clear, perfect. Almost too perfect. Shiny happy people out mowing their lawns, shiny happy family inside laughing. Sam felt so out-of-place, yet so intrigued, so sated. The surreptitious looks Dean was forever giving him were making him curious, though. Dean’s smile was full, bright, clear, perfect. No hint of fear or self-protectiveness, no rumblings under the surface of the hunter that Sam knew him to be. Or so he thought he knew.

 

Dean volunteered for he and Sam to mow the lawn and clear the yard of debris as part of Mary’s birthday gift. Sam followed along. 

 

Once inside the garage, Sam began gathering the yard tools, checking the gas tank on the mower, and preparing for the job at hand. Dean had other thoughts, and grabbed Sam by the waist, turning him around and, for the second time that day, kissing him hard on the mouth. Sam, stunned, again, gaped-mouth, again, tried to ask, again, what the HELL was going on, but Dean stopped him, pulling back from the kiss. “Sam,” Dean began, ever-so-gently, “I don’t know what’s wrong…did I do something to make you mad at me? Are you ok? Why are you pulling away from me?” 

 

Sam just stood in wonder. Wondering why Dean, this Dean, would kiss him. Wondering what history they had together. Wondering why his own body was responding the way it was. Very confusing to a man who woke up just hours ago in a place that he never really knew, but did know, surrounded by dead people. 

 

Beats of silence continued. Dean could see the wheels in Sam’s brain turning. Round and round. “Sam, man, you’re over-thinking again. I just don’t know what you’re over-thinking. Care to clue me in?” 

 

Sam looked down, around the garage, everywhere but at Dean. His Dean. The Dean he loved more than anyone. The Dean who had stood by him, saved him again and again. The brother? he loved. Too much. And Sam had absolutely no idea what to say. 

 

So, if everything was different, maybe Sam was different. Maybe Sam could be different. Maybe Sam should be different. Maybe Sam should stop thinking and start acting.

 

Sam kissed Dean. Tentatively, at first, the way one kisses someone for the first time, tepid, careful, easy, slow. Oh, Sam’s head was always full of words and thoughts and descriptions and meta-analyses of what he was doing or thinking or saying…God he got tired of himself sometimes. And this was no exception. His thoughts took the shape of ‘why am I doing this…what has happened to me…what has happened to Dean…why is he kissing me back…why is his tongue in my mouth…why…is…he…moaning…like… that….’ And suddenly Sam wasn’t thinking, at least not with his brain.

 

Dean pushed Sam back against the garage wall, moaning and kissing and holding Sam. Holding him like a treasure. And kissing him like a lover. And smiling at him like a fool. Sam couldn’t help but smile back, feelings rushing to the surface, feelings he chose not to analyze, not to take apart and try and figure out. Sam just felt happy. 

 

The reverie the two men were sharing was interrupted by John’s loud entrance into the garage from the house. Quick as ever, Sam and Dean put space between them and feigned preparing the mower. John didn’t notice a thing. He just brought out a gas can, and handed it to Dean, “I’m sure glad Sam has a mechanically-inclined friend who can help him run a mower, or a car for that matter,” John began, “I love my son, and he’s good at a lot of things, but he sure didn’t inherit my mechanical abilities. Got his mom’s brains, though, and fortunately, her good looks.” John grinned at both men and headed back into the house. Dean looked up from long lashes and whispered to Sam, “and he gives the best blowjobs in the universe…wonder where he inherited that?” Sam blushed, and playfully swatted at Dean. 

 

That information sure helped in the “what history do we have together?” department. Sam made a mental note of it. ‘I’m good at blow jobs.’ Damn. 

 

 

After finishing the yard work, Dean and Sam took turns showering. Sam noticed how modest Dean was when Sam’s parents were around. Sam found it funny, remembering all the years on the road with Dad, living in close quarters, no time for modesty. He’d seen every inch of Dean. And here this Dean was, being all polite and shy. Sam found himself wondering if Dean now had the same scars, the same markings, the same blonde course hair just under…and Sam made himself stop wondering.

 

 

“Dinner was wonderful,” Mary said as they arrived home from her birthday celebration. Mary and John were all smiles, Mary wearing the three-stone diamond ring John had given her, a diamond for each of the three members of their family – John, Mary, Sam. John had asked at dinner if he needed to reserve another diamond to add to the ring when Jess joined the family. Sam and Dean just laughed good-naturedly, but Sam could see the sadness in Dean’s eyes. 

 

Sam’s parents headed off to bed, and Dean chastely kissed Sam, with a whispered, “I’ll see you in the morning” and a “I can’t wait to get you home.” Both men headed to separate bedrooms and Sam fell asleep uncharacteristically quickly.

 

 

The ceiling was on fire, Jess caught like a butterfly pinned against the flames, blood dripping down and heat and fear consuming her

 

 

Sam awoke with a gasp. The room felt hot. He got a glass of water and tried to go back to sleep.

 

 

Dad’s body was burning, a Viking funeral of sorts, the only two witnesses – his sons, both standing like soldiers, fighting back tears

 

 

Sam awoke again. 

 

 

The Djinn was sucking blood from a needle, smiling a ghastly grin, and turned to look directly at Sam, “go back, now, boy, go to sleep.”

 

 

But Sam was still awake. Horribly, terribly awake. And suddenly, irreverently, everything became blindingly clear.

 

 

He dressed quickly, grabbed the keys to his father’s car, and headed downstairs. He found a flashlight in the kitchen, grabbed a package of leftover uncooked hamburger meat (what one uses when lamb’s blood is unavailable) and took one of his mother’s knives from its case. The good silver. Untarnished. 

 

Revving the engine of the Impala (thank God some things stay the same,) Sam got a map from the glove box. Before Sam could get his bearings, Dean was opening the passenger’s side door and getting inside the car. “Didn’t think you could get away from me that easy, did you?” Dean smiled weakly.

 

“Get out of the car,” Sam answered. Dean looked hurt, then angry, “No,” he answered. Sam repeated his order, and Dean shook his head, “I don’t know what is going on, but whatever it is, I’m coming with you…so, what the hell is going on and where are we going?”

 

Sam took a deep breath, and explained, “I am going to kill a Djinn, a Genie, a creature that drains people’s blood and kills them. And you are staying here.”

 

Dean looked incredulous, made no move to leave the car, and simply said, “I’m going.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

Dean, confused, asked, “Why did you just call me a jerk?”

 

Sam shook his head, “You’re…supposed to call me…a bitch.”

 

“Why would I call you a bitch?” 

 

“Never mind.” 

 

 

 

 

Heading out of Kansas, Dean eyed Sam warily from the passenger’s side of the Impala. “What is this Genie you were talking about and why do you have to find her?” 

 

“Him,” Sam answered, “It’s a ‘him’ and he’s not a TV Genie, Dean, but a Djinn, a mythical creature that happens to be real. He takes people, takes victims, and drains their blood to keep himself alive and powerful, and then he lets them die. I’ve got to save those people in that warehouse, Dean, I’ve just got to.”

 

“Ok, Sam,” Dean said in a condescending tone, “And I’ll help you, but why don’t you pull over and let’s get some rest first, ok?”

 

Sam made no move to pull over, intent on his purpose. He knew Dean thought he was crazy. He tried to distract him from that assumption. “Dean, how long have you known me?” 

 

“Since freshman year, Sam, you running a fever again or something? We were supposed to be roommates, but there was that stupid fucker in admissions that mixed up the applications and I ended up rooming with that dork named Samuel Wincet. Total asshat. And you took that apartment off-campus with Jess.”

 

“Yeah, Jess,” Sam ventured lightly on this subject, “She’s great, huh?”

 

“Yeah, Sam, she’s the greatest,” Dean snarked. “The greatest, bestest, hottest beard a guy’s ever had. You are one lucky bastard. Apparently your evil plan is working, too. With what your parents are thinking, you may never have to come out of the closet.” With that Dean smirked, hunched down, and feigned sleep. Conversation over, per Dean.

 

Two hundred miles out of Kansas, after two hundred miles of silence, Dean broke down and tried to apologize. (Strong word, ‘apology,’ not really in the man’s vocabulary, but he tried. Sort of.) “Sam, man, you know what? We ought to stop for the night, get some rest, maybe get some, you know? I really missed you when we were at your parents’. I like being your best friend and all, but I like being your…you know…even better.”

 

“Dean,” Sam observed, “In this or any other universe, you are one articulate bastard, you know that?” 

 

Dean chuckled, puffed out his chest and said, “Yeah, I know. Ar-ti-cu-late. That’s me. So, let’s stop and get a room, ok?” 

 

The eager look on Dean’s face and the tired ache behind Sam’s eyes convinced Sam to stop at the next less-than-sleazy-looking motel for the night. 

 

Dean went in to the office and came out with the key, twirling it around his finger and looking lasciviously at Sam, raising one eyebrow, then the other, grinning from ear to ear. Sam smiled for the first time in hours. He saw a glint of his Dean - the charm, the playfulness, just a moment of pure Dean. Only Sam wasn’t used to being to object of Dean’s playfulness, flirtation, or affections. He liked it. A lot. And, for the second time in one day, he decided not to over-think or over-analyze. 

 

Upon entering the room, Sam was disappointed to find two queen-size beds. Then he was surprised at being surprised. Then he remembered his promise not to over-think things. 

 

After undressing and collapsing onto the bed nearest the door, Dean stretched out and yawned. Sam took this as his cue to bed down for the night, so he turned the light out, undressed in the dark, and got under the covers of the bed furthest from the door. “G’night” he said into the darkness. 

 

Two ticks of the clock. 

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean practically shouted.

 

Startled, Sam quietly answered, “Going to sleep?”

 

“What the hell for? We’ve got this room all to ourselves, we don’t have to find the time or the place, because the time and the place is NOW, so get your sexy ass over here on this bed with me right this minute, dumbass!”

 

Sam couldn’t help but laugh, “So, um, Dean, before I make any rash decisions here, I have to know, is my ass sexy or dumb?”

 

“Both.”

 

And with that Sam moved hesitantly(?) slowly(?) eagerly(?) (over-thinking again, there, Sammy) over to Dean’s bed and got under the covers. Not daring to get too close, Sam turned his back to Dean and nestled under the covers. If anything was going to happen, he was not going to instigate it. No, that would be wrong. But, if Dean…well, if Dean pushed the issue, who was Sam to argue with that?

 

Dean pushed. Hard. Hard enough to push Sam off of the bed.

 

“What the hell, Dean?”

 

“What the hell? What the hell is wrong with you? Fuck, I thought we already had this conversation,” 

 

Two ticks of the clock.

 

Dean’s voice, calm now, “C’mere, Sam, please. I really did miss you.”

 

Sam climbed back onto the bed and allowed his body to mold to Dean’s, allowed Dean’s arms to encircle him, allowed his own limbs to intertwine with Dean’s, his eyes to lock onto Dean’s face. The moonlight from the small window threw glints of blue over Dean’s freckles. Sam had never noticed how beautiful those brown dots were until now. 

 

Dean kissed him gently, pressing his full lips against Sam’s, vying for a reaction, a response. Sam responded, deepening the kiss, licking at Dean’s mouth, sucking at his lips, his tongue, pressing harder against him. Sam heard sounds from Dean’s mouth that he had never heard before. And words. Words just for him. Words of want and need and even love. Words that were moving Sam’s heart just as Dean’s kisses were bringing his body into a new state of alertness and awareness and…

 

“Please” Sam said out loud. 

 

Dean moved to align their bodies, and took Sam’s hardness into his hand, stroking gently at first, as if Sam were fragile, breakable, but Sam’s moans encouraged more. More stroking, rubbing, touching. Sam felt Dean’s erection against his thigh, and took great care to wrap his large hand around it and mimic what Dean was doing to him. Sam’s spine tingled, his heart raced; yet he felt a calmness in his soul (if he still had a soul; if he ever had one) that belied the urgency of arousal. He wanted this to last forever. 

 

He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them, and found Dean looking at him with so much, so much indescribable emotion and yet so much desire. The heady mix quickly brought Sam close. Dean slowed his stroking, bringing his other hand to Sam’s face, encouraging him to keep his eyes open, to look at Dean, to be fully aware in this moment. Sam shuddered and came, never taking his eyes off of Dean. Dean quickly followed, eyes wide and unblinking. 

 

They lay close, encircled one into the other, and, sated, fell into a state akin to sleep, but closer to bliss.

 

This, whatever this was, Sam thought, was his. At least for now. And for now, the Djinn could wait.

 

 

 

 

Sam awoke, stretching, and felt a warm body against his. Yesterday flooded back to his mind. He could only look at Dean, his Dean, through sleepy eyes, in wonder, with wonder. This was what he had always wished for. This kind of love. Despite all his denial, all his fear, all his over-thinking, Sam knew in his gut, his heart, at the very core of his being, that he had always loved Dean. And now, here, Dean loved him, too. Dean loved him with no reservations, just pure acceptance. What Sam had craved all his life. Was there really any reason to leave? Was there really any reason to rush anywhere but here? Now, this now, was what Sam wanted more and more of. There was a freedom here, a calm, that Sam had never known. And he was happy. And Dean, driven and hyper-vigilant Dean, was happy. And Sam had helped that happen.

 

Dean awoke to Sam staring at him, starry-eyed. “Can’t take your eyes off me, huh, baby?” Dean asked, “I know, I know, I get that all the time. I am truly one handsome devil.”

 

Sam laughed and nestled closer to Dean, “I am achingly aware of that fact, Dean Winchester.”

 

Dean looked puzzled, “What did you just call me?” 

 

“Um,” Sam began, “I think I just called you Dean Winchester.”

 

“Yeah, I get that, Sam, but why?”

 

“Because…” Sam tried to make a joke of it, “Don’t you want to take my name when we get married?”

 

Dean looked terribly serious, concerned even, then broke out into a grin and jumped to straddle Sam, kissing him and tickling him, “I don’t think so, dumbass. Just because you’ve got the cool last name, I’m still gonna keep mine, thank you very much. I might be in love with you, but I still have my balls and I certainly intend to keep my name! And I’m not gonna fucking marry anybody.”

 

Sam was laughing at being tickled, laughing at Dean’s reply, laughing because this was so wonderful. 

 

Dean interrupted their play with a characteristic Dean comment, “We stink, Sam, let’s get a shower.”

 

Sam felt a tingle beginning in his spine at the very thought.

 

 

Dean started the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. He stepped out of the bathroom holding a washcloth like a loincloth, motioning for Sam to join him. Sam began laughing again, “Hey, Dean, why did you get shy all of a sudden?” 

 

“Just to give you something to look forward to, baby,” Dean replied with a raised eyebrow.

 

The two stepped into the shower, this motel fortunately having very high showerheads installed in the bathrooms. Neither man was at risk of getting a head injury, and both could easily actually step under the shower. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, and reached for a bottle of shower gel. “Shower gel?” Sam asked, laughing. “Um, yeah,” Dean said, incredulous, “this is your favorite kind – Rosemary Mint. Remember? We found it at that store in the mall near the college. We’ve been using it for months!” “Oh,” Sam answered, still smiling. Dean began pouring the gel on a washcloth and Sam realized why he liked the scent – minty and sweet and refreshing, but not feminine. Dean began washing Sam’s neck, his chest, his arms, and got lower and lower. Sam’s body was responding to the sensual stimulation, to the loving touch. Dean turned Sam around and slowly, painfully slowly, washed Sam’s back. Sam stood, bracing himself, arms folded over forehead, leaning against the wall of the shower, like a child playing hide and seek, counting to one hundred. 

 

Dean licked at Sam’s now squeaky-clean neck, nipping and biting Sam’s ear. Sam moaned. Dean returned to his task of bathing Sam, moving the washcloth in circles on Sam’s ass, creating suds. “Now you really are a bubble-butt,” Dean laughed. Sam just smiled and blurted out “don’t stop.” Dean complied, now rubbing his bare hands over Sam’s back, Sam’s buttocks, Sam’s body. Moving to allow the shower spray to rinse away the soap, watching as the rivulets traced every beautiful line and curve of Sam’s body, Dean looked on in wonder, mesmerized at the beauty of his lover.

 

Dean dropped to his knees and started kneading Sam’s buttocks, rubbing and pinching and then kissing and licking, the water covering his mouth, slickening his mouth and Sam’s skin. Dean gently licked at Sam’s hole, tentatively at first, then placing the flat of his tongue there and humming. Sam’s moans were getting louder. Dean continued in earnest, licking over and over and then into Sam. 

 

Warmth and moans and wetness and heat and Sam and Dean and now. 

 

Dean poured more of the shower gel onto his hands and began slowly and gently to work his thumb into Sam. Sam squirmed and bucked back against Dean’s hand, growling. Dean worked another slick thumb into Sam and began stretching him, working into him, preparing him.

 

Dean stood, hard, pressing against Sam, just a question, an urging. Sam said out loud, “yes.”

 

Dean pushed into him with a gentleness that Sam never suspected, easing into him, making him want more and more. No pain, just pure pleasure. Sam moved back against him, urging him to move, to thrust, and Dean complied. Slow strokes, so slow, almost achingly so. Dean’s arms surrounding Sam’s waist, encircling him, holding him. Sam had never felt so connected to anyone. “More,” Sam gasped. Dean pushed, thrust, moved into Sam’s body, moved over nerves Sam never knew he had. Both were panting under the spray of the water. Sam moved to take his hardness into his hand, but Dean stopped him, instead encircling Sam with his own hand, rubbing in time with his thrusts. Sam came over Dean’s hand, Dean following quickly, lamenting, “Love you, baby, love you so much.” Dean rubbed Sam’s back as the shudders subsided, then pulled slowly, gently, out of Sam. After washing them both clean, Dean opened the curtain and both stepped out. The two began drying each other like they’d done this a thousand times before.

 

Maybe we have, thought Sam. Maybe we have.

 

Both men dressed, got back in the Impala and on the road, chasing the Djinn. 

 

Dean seemed thoughtful, almost morose. “I lied,” he told Sam from the passenger’s side, after 20 miles of silence.

 

“What?’ Sam asked.

 

“I lied.”

 

“About what?”

 

“I would marry you.”

 

Sam grinned, Dean looked embarrassed, “Only I don’t think I could find a diamond ring big enough for your Sasquatch finger.” 

 

“So you’d be the one getting down on one knee?”

 

“I’m used to getting down on both knees and you like that, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah, I really, really like that.”

 

 

 

 

Sam pulled into the parking lot of the abandoned building. He sat for a few minutes, staring at the building, staring at a sleeping Dean, who looked so peaceful, so happy. Tears welled up in Sam’s eyes. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. He had a decision to make. Probably the hardest one he would ever have to make. 

 

Sam tried to wake Dean with a gentle nudge, usually all it took to wake him. Usually. But this time was different and Sam found it quite difficult to rouse Dean from his slumber. Dean’s head was leaning against the window of the Impala, so Sam moved over and began gently kissing and licking Dean’s exposed neck, whispering all the things he wished he could say to his Dean.

 

Dean awoke with a sleepy smile, “Me, too, baby” followed by a yawn, a stretch, and an “are we there yet?”

 

“Unfortunately.”

 

Dean followed Sam into the building, past the familiar typewriter, into the open section. What they saw there was horrifying. Bodies hanging from rope-tied wrists, blood being drained from huge needles in their necks. Bags of blood hanging beside each body, some of them obviously already dead. Sam’s tears returned. There were empty ropes, places where bodies were, or would be, or could be. 

 

“This isn’t real,” Sam finally said out loud.

 

“Looks real enough to me,” Dean replied, “What do we do now? How do we stop this?”

 

“No,” Sam said, touching Dean’s chest, “this isn’t real. You’re not real. I’m probably hanging up there somewhere, dying, and this is just a…wish. You are just a wish.” Sam laughed sarcastically, “I finally get what I want, and I have to die for it. Figures.” 

 

“I’m real, Sam,” Dean said, looking solemnly into Sam’s eyes, “I’m just as real to you as you are to me.”

 

“No, you can’t be,” Sam said, tears again welling up, “You know what they say, ‘if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ So this can’t be true, because this, us, is the best thing I’ve ever had. The best two days of my life. Seeing Mom and Dad again and being with you the way I’ve always wanted, Dean, this just can’t be real. I hunt demons; we hunt demons, ghosts, all sorts of terrible creatures. We save people. That’s what we do, at least that’s what we do in reality. And I can’t let that life go, as much as I want to stay here. As much as I want to stay here with you. If I stayed, I’d always know it wasn’t real, I’d always know the real you was out there somewhere, somewhere without me. And what kind of lie of a life would that be?”

 

“This isn’t a lie!” Dean shouted, and grabbed Sam by the shoulders, and kissed him. Hard. “Does that feel like a lie? Or does that feel real?”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam replied stoically.

 

“Yes, it matters, Sam,” Dean began, “It matters because we can be happy, we can have this life together. Hell, you can even maybe come out to your parents someday.” Dean tried a smile. “I need, you, Sam. I need you, here, now, in my life, in this life. Stay with me. This is real.”

 

“So you say, but there’s only one way to find out,” Sam said, and took out the silver knife he brought from his mother’s silver chest. He held it to his wrist. “If I die here, then maybe I can still have that other life. It’s better than nothing, right?”

 

“No!” Dean shouted, and tried to grab the knife from Sam. The two men vied for possession of the weapon, and the side of Dean’s neck was nicked slightly in the process. Dean backed up, “Does this look real? This blood? This is real!” And he moved forward, taking Sam’s hand and drawing a red circle, a circle in blood, in Sam’s palm. 

 

Sam, unable to meet Dean’s gaze, turned his back and made a deep cut in his left wrist.

 

 

 

“Oh God, Sammy…Sammy, wake up, man, you gotta wake up for me, Sammy.”

 

“Oh, God, Sam, wake up.”

 

“Don’t leave me baby brother.”

 

“Don’t leave me, baby.”

 

“Stay with me, Sammy.”

 

“Stay, Sam. Please stay.”

 

“Don’t you die on me! Don’t you dare!”

 

“Don’t go, Sam, please don’t go.”

 

 

Sam opened his eyes and looked into Dean’s face, eyes wide and red and worried. He saw the Djinn on the floor, knife in his heart, dead. Sam’s wrists were tied above his head, and he was tired, so tired.

 

Dean gently pulled the needle from Sam’s neck, and cut the ropes, allowing his brother to fall into his arms, soothing, “I got you, Sammy, I got you, baby brother.” 

 

Dean helped Sam to his feet; supporting some of his weight, arm around Sam’s waist.

 

“You’re bleeding,” Sam said weakly.

 

“Yeah,” Dean replied, unconcerned, and wiped a drop of blood from his neck, “So are you.”

 

Sam felt his own neck, where the needle had been, and felt an oozing of blood still there. Sam then looked down at his wrists. Both were bloody, probably rubbed raw from the ropes. 

 

And there was the faintest smudge of blood on Sam’s right palm. A circle.

 

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

“So, we weren’t brothers.”

 

“No.”

 

“We were…lovers.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Just a drug-induced reality.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Not real.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah. Not real.”

 

The sound of two men settling into creaking beds, turning away from each other in the darkness, sounded like weeping.


End file.
